Of Faith, Lost and Regained
by bluRaaven
Summary: "Healer!" Carver knelt on the Chantry floor. Next to him Hawke was lying in a crumpled heap. What did I care about one mercenary? Karl was dead and I would be a wanted man by tomorrow with four eyewitnesses to my being an abomination to boot. Yet I did stop. That's what I was. A healer. It was only when Hawke struggled up and lifted his head to meet my gaze that I saw it.
1. Chapter 1: Anders

_The lit lantern_ was what those who were in need of my aid looked for. In the clinic close to the old mining tunnels they would find The Healer, the one who would treat them regardless of their race or standing and who would take no payment for the services rendered.

Rumours travelled fast through the city underground.

It must have been how _they_ found me.

It was dangerous, to announce to the whole of Darktown that there was an apostate hiding in the sewers. A few might gain by ratting me out to the templars. It was not me I was afraid for though, and the others would silence the foolish quickly enough. We refugees had to stick together.

I had just cleaned the wound on the abdomen of a sandy-haired boy whom his weeping parents had carried to me, begging for me to help him. I did what I could to stop the bleeding, to wash the ragged gash of dirt and dull the pain with a brew made from local herbs. Somebody had gutted the lad with a shiv, a small knife made of anything that could be used to slash or stab, from chipped stones to rusty pieces of old tools. The boy looked to be no older than twelve, but he had already fallen victim to the violence of this miserable place.

The magic surged up from deep within me, painting the insides of my eyelids with its soothing, blue radiance.

Healing gave me peace of mind like no other thing ever did. Nothing existed in that brief moment, nothing except for the heartbeat of my patient, the tendrils of magic that escaped my fingers and that I shaped to knead flesh together, to restore the wrong done to this body. When I was spent, too tired to even hold up my arms, the blue tinge of my magic flickered and died. In the subsequent quiet I heard the boy try to sit up and realized that my eyes were still closed, my shoulders slumped and arms dangling numbly at my sides like dead things.

I righted myself, and the world around me spun, a wild blend of pieces of my clinic, the darkness around me and the lights that danced at the edge of my vision. A hand under my arm steadied me and after a moment the spell passed.

I nodded my thanks to the father, but he was not even looking in my direction, eyes glistening with unshed tears glued to his son. The boy clung to his mother's neck, but if he had survived the healing, he would be alright.

One life I could safe, for all the dozens that I couldn't.

I did not allow myself the sigh of relief. And that was when I felt _him_, a flare of anger followed by immediate alertness. I felt myself shift, saw the blue in my veins in my hands stand out and my consciousness pulled at, the outrage that somebody would dare to come- I clamped down hard on the feeling and as quickly as it had come, it was gone again, and hopefully any overseen glow would be attributed to the powerful spell I had just worked on the boy.

My hand landed on my staff and I whirled around to face down the intruders. "I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation," my voice echoed in the cavernous space of underground. "Why do you threaten it?"

Four people were blocking the entrance to my clinic and they all halted. None of them looked enthusiastic about the prospect of stepping forward and facing the renegade apostate. I had learned to assess threats during my time with the Wardens and my eyes first fell on the tall redheaded woman in their midst, maybe because she wore full guard regalia and a hard frown.

_This couldn't be good. _

Next to her stood a dwarf, blonde, beardless and clothed in a deeply cut crimson shirt embroidered with a gilded thread. Both it and the heavy leather coat he wore looked more expensive than all the possessions of me and my patrons combined. An impression of wealth that was enforced by the golden hoops in his ears and his necklace which he wore openly. My eyes narrowed. An odd sort they were to stumble into my clinic and I doubted they needed healing. One did not wander through the Undercity and display one's wealth. Either they were very foolish, or very dangerous. Possibly both.

The last two of the group were brothers, unless the black hair and matching uniforms and facial features were just a coincidence. The one on the right, clean shaven and with a sword slung over his back oozed soldier, however it was the smaller of the duo who stepped forward.

When he did the light illuminated the badge sewn to the sleeve on his upper arm. Red Iron. A band of mercenaries with a reputation of getting a job done by whatever means. Lirene had warned me they had been sniffing around her shop a few days back; I should have taken her words of caution more seriously. Kill one of them and their friends were bound to come take revenge. Better if this day passed without bloodshed.

My eyes caught on the mercenary's unruly mess of windswept hair that was just shy of falling into his hazel eyes. Handsome, if a bit rough around the edges with a nasty looking welt across the bridge of his nose that made him look the part of a dashing rascal. He raised a hand to scratch at his beard and cleared his throat, as if my full attention was not already on them.

"We don't. We just want to talk." He sounded like he wasn't so sure himself.

"Rumour has it you were a Warden," the dwarven prince spoke up smoothly. He couldn't be anything but one of the surface merchants, the only other dwarves down here were Carta thugs.

"Did the Wardens send you to bring me back?" I asked, not lowering my guard. If they hoped to strike while I was distracted by chitchat, they were in for a surprise. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw my watchers take off at a sprint. A moment ago I was ready to collapse from exhaustion, now with the possibility of a fight I was wide awake, brimming with nervous energy. Better the Wardens than the templars, but still. "I'm not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads."

The mercenary was not the only one to blink in surprise. His head tilted somewhat to the side, as if my words were something to puzzle over. "You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot? In the _Deep Roads_?"

He did not believe me, and that worked to my advantage. Words could throw an adversary off balance as much as actions.

"He was a gift," I replied. "A noble beast. Almost got ripped in half by a Genlock once. He swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood, too." _Made me too soft_, they said. Nobody would dare to say the like about me now. Justice was anything but 'soft'.

The mercenary looked back at his brother, as if searching for an answer with his companions. I wondered if maybe he had taken one too many blows to the head, but the other warrior only shrugged.

Good. If he was sent to bring me back but thought I was crazy that's what he could go tell the Wardens. They had deteriorated after Cousland left. He had seen an asset in everything, probably would have found a way to turn the situation with Justice to his advantage too, but I was done with being somebody's tool. Even the Taint Brigade drew the line at abominations.

At least I had found a good home for Pounce, as much as I missed him, he wouldn't have made it one week here without landing in some duster's cooking pot.

"I've always thought joining the Wardens is for life." A dark humour sparkled in the smaller sibling's eyes, a joke only he was private to.

"That's only partly true," I corrected. "The 'hopelessly tainted by the Darkspawn' and 'plagued by nightmares about the Archdemon' parts don't go away. But it turns out if you hide well you don't have to wear the uniform or go to the parties."

The Fereldan soldier crossed his arms. "What parties would Grey Wardens throw?" the warrior muttered low enough, but in the empty space his words echoed, perfectly audible to us all.

"I'm sure the Blight and Taint have fun sides too," his brother shot back without actually looking back. "They could play blind man's buff with the Calling. Whack-a-Darkspawn maybe?"

I wanted to whack something alright and it wasn't a Darkspawn. How did he even know about the Calling?

For a reason I could not figure out on the spot the man's manners struck me as odd. Maybe it was that as a healer I was sensitive to when something was wrong with a person. Was he ill? Then again perhaps it was how he stared at a point an inch or two above my left shoulder and would not meet my eyes.

Just then the doors to my clinic burst open again and I recognized Lilley. I was sure there were more of her friends waiting outside.

"They givin' you trouble?"

Ah, the Coterie. Healing against protection. They always had the clinic watched in case I would need help with... unwanted guests. My visitors shifted uncomfortably, all except for the smart-mouthed mercenary who had talked to me earlier, though his hands did wander closer to his knives.

"Not yet," I told her and she withdrew with a nod. I turned back to the four. Only now did I lower my staff, and leaned on it. They would have to be suicidal to attempt anything, knowing I wasn't alone. "You seem to know an awful lot about me. You have me at a disadvantage here. Why not tell me who you are and what you want." _And get out. _

"This is Aveline Vallen, of the guard," the leader of the mismatched band introduced the redhead. "Varric Dammit-I'm-_Not-_With-The-Merchant's-Guild Tethras and my brother, Carver." He paused here, finished by all means until his brother nudged him in the ribs.

"Oh, and I am Noah. Or Hawke, if you prefer being formal. I'm part of an expedition into the Deep Roads."

"I will die a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again." I felt a pain behind my temples at the mere mention of them. Endless corridors where even shadows crawled and the very earth was saturated with the taint of the Blight. And always the Darkspawn. Their call was sometimes further away, but never entirely gone.

I was shaking my head before he got any further. "You cannot imagine what I went through to get here"

Hawke raised one eyebrow in response, though his mimic did not change. Neither did his wry, sarcastic tone. "Let me guess. Hunted by templars? Which were driven by hordes of Darkspawn? Which in turn were chased by Wardens?"

That actually was an astonishingly accurate guess.

"We need to get into the Deep Roads," the dwarf took over, either out of patience or sensing that this talk was going nowhere.

"I'm not interested."

"We have enough coin to make it worthwhile," Varric spoke up with a look around the place and its sparse furnishing.

I sank down on the table I had treated the boy on earlier. "If money was what I wanted I would not be running a free clinic in the sewers."

"Point taken," he mumbled. "Come on, Hawke, we are wasting our time here."

"Medical supplies are expensive."

Damn him. He was persistent, this mercenary, and he had just played the one angle that could sway me. Although... there was one other thing. It would be a risk, a damned big one. But desperate men might just agree to it and I had not come to Kirkwall for the sea air.

"There is something you could do for me," I began, still not sure this was wise. No; it was stupid, reckless, to put my trust in these strangers, exactly the kind of idiocy that had gotten me thrown back into the circle time and time again. But they needed me and I could not accomplish my task alone. That decided it. "You help me; I'll help you, simple as that. Does that sound like a fair deal?"

"A favour for a favour?" the dwarf merchant snorted. "That sounds like the bargaining words of every bad deal of the Guild."

"I don't like the sound of this," Aveline agreed, the first time she had said anything.

Carver appeared to be of the same opinion. "We don't need him."

"We need an entrance to the Deep Roads," Noah Hawke pointed out patiently. I had to wonder. Was 'Hawke' the family name? Varric had not used his first name and they appeared to be friends.

"We'll find something," Carver insisted, pulling on his brother's arm.

"Sure," Hawke agreed and dryly added, "If we dig long enough." He pulled his arm free and planted his feet, the perfect picture of a man who was not going anywhere. "I want to hear what he has to say."

"I have a Warden map of the depths in this area," I threw in. That got their attention.

"We want to see that map," Carver immediately stated.

"Alright." I was about to retrieve it when I noticed the rusty red that had set in the creases of my hands. They were covered in blood, up to the middle of my forearms. I had quite forgotten, and my nose had quit its job a week into living in Darktown. I detoured into the far corner. I had originally chosen this place for my clinic because it had a water pump. I filled a basin and washed my hands, before I ruined that damned map.

All four of them cluttered around it when I lay out a piece of it on my table, heads bent together. I wasn't stupid enough to present them with the whole of it.

"I recognize this Thaig's name," Varric said excitedly, one finger tracing a line of runes. "From Bartrand's records. If I'm not mistaken we should come out right-"

They had had a look. I snatched the parchment away again and rolled it up.

"What do you want in return for the map?" Hawke asked softly, recovering faster than his friends.

"I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend," I admitted and after a moment of hesitation, "A mage."

"Where's the catch?" the mercenary addressed the ceiling, rocking from his toes to his heels.

"His name is Karl Thekla. He is a prisoner in the wretched Gallows." And he wasn't just some mage, not to me. He was my oldest friend, my first lover, the one who had made living inside the Fereldan Circle bearable.

"Ah," Hawke sighed. "There it is."

"You mean the Circle." Spoken like somebody who had never been inside one. But then the guard probably never had been, could not imagine what it was like to be locked up, away from the rest of the world. Even criminals got sentences according to the severity of the crimes they had committed. Not mages. That was for life, with no chance at redemption for something most of us had no influence over and would never have chosen willingly.

I was too tired to feel much in the way of fury, but my next words ignited the spark of it inside my chest. "It is not a Circle, it is a prison! Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances at court, made Tranquil for the slightest crimes."

Something twisted in Hawke's brother's features. "That's enough. We're leaving. Now!"

Not a friend of mages, then, this Carver. Thankfully none of his companions listened to him.

"You want us to break into the Gallows?" Carver's brother seemed completely unperturbed at the thought.

"No." That would be a madness not even I would attempt.

Before I could explain further Carver butted in once more. "Are you insane? Have you forgotten what they did? To you; to all of us!? Fighting templars will _only_ serve to prove their point! As if they needed another reason to hunt us."

"So at least one of you is an apostate," I observed amused. Was it why the warrior was so angry? Because his life was in danger? Or was it the rogue? I sensed no magical ability in either of them, but you did not remain an apostate for so long without learning how to conceal what you were.

Something passed between the brothers, Carver staring at the smaller man like he could change the other's mind with his gaze alone. "Hawke." It sounded like he was calling a dog to heel.

Hawke's reply was, "Mouldy cheese." Like his answer made perfect sense.

"Noah!"

"Gamlen," Hawke countered.

His brother threw up his arms in surrender at that. "Fine! Have it your way!"

Whatever a 'Gamlen' was, it had just won the argument in my favour.

The rogue mercenary did not appear pleased with his victory. He just faced me like we had never been interrupted. "Do the templars know of your plans?"

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "I have been exchanging letters with Karl through a servant in the Gallows. Then the letters stopped coming."

Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose and studied the dusty toes of his boots for a while, like they were the most fascinating thing this side of the Waking Sea. "How do you plan to break him out of the Gallows?"

"I hope it won't come to that. I sent Karl a message to meet me in the Chantry tonight. Maker willing, he'll be there. Help me get him out." If one of them was a mage, an apostate, surely they would understand. "We will all walk free and I will share what I know of the Deep Roads with you. There's more to it than just studying maps, you know? Surviving the Taint."

I received no answer, but neither did they argue with me. I stood again. "These are my terms. If you want my aid with your expedition, meet me in the Chantry tonight."

Hawke nodded at nobody in particular, Aveline harrumphed, Varric was shaking his head and Carver's face looked like he had bitten into a Deep Mushroom. But they filed out, one after another and I was not sure I would see them again.

Lilley was still outside, leaning against the clinic wall with one leg braced, cleaning her nails with a small but wicked looking knife.

"Wake me up in case any templars come running, yes?"

"Sure thing." She grinned up at me. Lots of people had a grudges. It was good to keep track of them.

I was already halfway back inside the clinic when I stopped. A tiny wisp of cold magic from my fingertips and the flame in the lantern guttered out. No more visitors tonight.

Despite my anxiety I drifted off immediately. No dreams of the Fade for me. The upside of being an abomination? Demons no longer find you desirable. The downside? Neither does anyone else.

oooo

I had gone to sleep at some time between sunrise and midday and when I woke again dusk was already falling. No cases of emergency had turned up at my clinic's door and I felt surprisingly well rested, though I felt my stomach churn with anticipation. It was really happening tonight! All I had worked for these past months.

I combed my fingers through my hair and bound it with a leather string and splashed some cold water in my face, more because I felt like I should rather than because I needed it. I grabbed my staff- not the one I used for healing, but the one made of Sylvanwood and dragonbone. Cousland had been as generous with his friends' rewards as he had been merciless with the punishment of his enemies.

Every sound was sharp in the quiet of the night, every shadow a bottomless pit of black as I walked the twisted corridors that led me through the Undercity and Lowtown before I emerged in a deserted marketplace. The trek had involved wading through the accumulated filth of the entire city, but at the end of it I was greeted by a fresh breeze and breathed in deeply. I was alone, met no one else on my way to the Chantry.

Respectable citizens withdrew into their homes at night when not even the streets of Hightown were safe. Gang wars were no uncommon thing in Kirkwall and one did better to stay clear of them. The only difference between here and the poorer district was that here the corpses got cleared off the pavement regularly each morning.

But no one accosted me and when I finally arrived at my destination, I braced my forearms on the balustrade and lowered my staff so it would not be seen at a first glance. Under different circumstances I would be watching the sky, and not the building. It was a beautiful night, cloudless, and stars uncountable glimmered above me, pinpricks of light sharp as the tips of swords.

Thus I was waiting at the top of the Chantry stairs when Hawke and his company appeared, the other three looking decidedly uncomfortable. Hawke himself could have been out on a leisurely evening stroll for all the care he showed. And here I had almost given up on them.

"I saw Karl go inside a few minutes ago," I said in a way of greeting. He had been alone. At least the Knight-Commander still allowed the mages to seek solace in prayers. "No templars so far. Are you ready?"

"Let's do this fast. I didn't see anybody suspicious out here, either, but... " Hawke shrugged without finishing. Up close I saw that what I had first assumed was a nasty cut across his nose was only paint.

"Maker, this is a bad idea," the redhead, Aveline, groused. She had doffed her guard armour. Couldn't be seen helping the mages, that one. "Why did I agree to this?"

Varric was quick to provide the answer. "Somebody needs to keep Hawke from defiling the statue of Andraste," the dwarf drawled and hefted a massive crossbow that was half as tall as he.

"Do you think they leave the donation boxes out overnight?" Noah asked, sounding perfectly serious. A small awkward pause followed.

"And you can't sink a boat you're sitting in," Carver muttered, a statement that only provoked a heavy sigh from Aveline.

I had had quite enough of their antics already. This was no time for levity. I wanted to keep them focused at the task at hand.

"Alright. Let's go inside. When we find Karl, let me talk to him." Maker knew, _I_ needed to stay calm. So close. I was so close. I could not believe I was actually doing this. Stealing away the mage who had always been one of the Circle's staunchest advocators. But then the Fereldan Circle had been nothing like the Gallows.

I pushed against the heavy bronze double doors and they swung inside on well-oiled hinges. All other parts were behind lock and key, but the faithful were admitted into the main hall at all times.

If possible, the Chantry was even more magnificent at night when it was deserted than it was during the day. Moonlight filtered through the high arched window at the back, casting mottled lights over the thick carpets and illuminating the statues to either side of the corridor. Andraste herself had a halo around her head, her pointed crown glowing as if with a light of its own.

If only the Chantry was not a pretty facade to a crumbling house, a colourful bandage to dazzle and hide the rotting flesh beneath it.

There was a watchful stillness that lingered over the holy place and the air smelled of stale incense and candles. I sensed disquiet creep up on me, though I did not know why and dared not call out for Karl.

In the periphery to my left, Hawke stopped and wandered off. The rogue looked like he had found that donation box, but if he wanted to redistribute some of the Chantry's wealth, I wasn't going to stop him.

And then I saw him, in one of the sparsely lit niches on the first floor and forgot all about Hawke and his companions that were trailing after me. Even with his back to me, I recognized him, the proud set of his shoulders that never bowed under the burdens they carried. There was more grey in his hair than I remembered, but as soon as my eyes fell on him I felt the coil of dread in my stomach ease and dissipate.

I was almost close enough to touch him when he spoke up and I drew up short at the impassive drone of a voice that had used to be rich, a voice I had once known better than my own.

"Anders. I know you too well. I knew you would never give up."

As a healer I knew my heart could not stop beating, but in that moment it felt like it. _Please_. Hoping against hope I was wrong. "What's wrong?"

When he turned I almost sank to my knees. There was no way to miss the brand on his forehead or the flat, dead eyes of a man broken beyond help.

"I was too rebellious," Karl droned on, the words washing over me, meaningless. _Too late._ I had come too late.

"Like you. The templars knew I had to be made an example of."

"No." I was shaking my head in denial, stuck dumb. Rebellious!? Karl had been a role model of a mage. And I had failed him, hadn't gotten to him in time. If only-

Not-Karl raised a hand to listlessly point a finger at me. "This is the apostate."

It all happened so quickly. The templars had approached behind our backs, swords already drawn and their footsteps muffled by the lush carpets. The only warning we had were Karl's words and the faintest ringing rustle of their armour. They fanned out wordlessly. _A trap. Karl had drawn me into a trap. But Karl was dead. Nay, worse than dead. _Death would have been a kinder fate than _this_.

A templar stayed back, cocked his crossbow and pointed it at my chest. In the next instance his neck erupted in a spray of red and he dropped to the ground, gurgling. One of his friends quickly followed. When the others turned to face their assailant, Carver charged them with a fierce war-cry.

The action that suddenly erupted around me ripped me out of my shock. The vice that had been tightening around my chest snapped without any forewarning and then I did fall. When I rose again, burning from the inside with the power of _vengeance_, I was only a spectator in my own body.

"You will never take another mage as you took him!" _he_ roared. Not my voice. Not my strength, but my hands, always my hands, stained crimson again as I tore into the enemy with unbridled ferocity and bloodlust.

Behind me I heard a pained cry as one of our own fell. At the same moment somebody yelled Noah's name.

I fought on, until there was nobody left to fight, only myself. It was over as suddenly as it had begun, and the Chantry was quiet once more. Or perhaps I was deaf from the shrieks of the foe dying around me. With no more templars to wreak havoc upon, Justice abated.

I heard the others' whispers of 'What is he?', and 'Abomination', but I only had eyes for Karl. He was blinking, like he had woken from a dream. And when he spoke, it was him again. The Karl I knew, not the shell of a human being from before. He looked around the Chantry with wide eyes full of wonder despite the ghastly scene before him.

"I- Anders! What did you do? It's like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like," Karl whispered hoarsely. "You cannot imagine what it is like. All the colour, all the music in the world... gone."

He did not shy away when I approached but his voice steadied, his gaze hardened. "Kill me!" It was not fair, that my once-lover would make that request of me. "Please, before I forget it again!" I heard the determination, the plea. "I would rather die a mage than a templar-puppet."

What must the others think? I did not care. It would be a wonder if they did not try to hand me over to the templars themselves afterwards. At the moment the scene before them must have held them spellbound.

"Anders."

I couldn't. Maker help me, I couldn't.

"Can you cure him?" I heard Carver shout from somewhere further away.

"Can you cure a beheading?" I snarled back, angry that he would dare to interfere in this moment. The dreams of Tranquil mages were severed; there was nothing _left_ of them to fix.

"Karl-" My voice broke and not another word would pass my throat. I drew him closer, pressed my lips to his temple in a kiss, like the ones he had bestowed upon me in our precious, stolen moments together.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I could taste the salt of my own tears as my knife slipped between his ribs and punctured his heart in the neatest, quickest death I could give him. As the world dissolved in a hazy blur of colours, I laid Karl down and gently closed his eyes though I could feel his breath against my palm, harsh and laboured. But not for long.

When he was free, this time forever, I struggled back to my feet. I should not turn my back on a band of strangers who had just witnessed me rip apart a squad of templars and murder my friend, but I couldn't care less what happened to me in this instant.

I felt like screaming, but there was no breath left in my chest, like throwing up, but my stomach was empty and I'd only give myself cramps. I wanted nothing more than to rave against the world and to stagger back to my clinic, to crawl into my bunk and mourn the man who had lost more than his life. To go through that, to become... It was wrong, on so many levels I could not begin to list them all. And there was nothing I could do. Bones could be set, wounds sewn. A mage severed from the Fade would always be Tranquil.

Karl's death must have taken a part of myself for all the emotion my voice held. Nobody had stuck a knife in my back so far, but I expected to feel steel's cold bite at any given moment. "We should go before more templars arrive."

_All the colour, all the music in the world, gone. _He was right, I did not know what it was like. I had my grief, my pain, to assure me that I was alive.

"Healer!" The shout broke through my daze, the only thing I could hear over the ringing in my ears. It was the brother, the warrior - _Carver_.

And next to him, Hawke was lying on the Chantry floor in a crumpled heap.

I didn't care. I did not think I would ever feel again. The anger, the bitter hatred, the sharp agony of loss, it blocked out everything else. What was one mercenary to me? Yet I stepped closer, past his friends who were eying me warily, stumbling back as I passed. I did not blame them, with what they had witnessed. At times I was afraid of what I had become, too.

Justice was many things, but a pretty sight it was not. I did not mind the blood. I spent most of my day covered in it. It was what I did, what I was. A healer.

This time my help proved unneeded, as Hawke groaned and stirred when I came closer and rolled to his hands and knees on his own. He looked around, appearing confused despite his brother talking intently to him, grasping at the other man's hand in an attempt to get him to respond.

Haemorrhage? A plain shock? Or a blow to the head? I was already running through a list of all the possible injuries he could have sustained, my training taking over. I was glad for the cold detachment it brought. I went down on one knee next to the two of them, cautiously reaching out to the smaller of the brothers to place a steadying hand on his back.

"Where-"

It was only when Hawke lifted his head to meet my gaze that I saw it.

_Maker, no. _

Beneath the messy fringe of his ebony-black hair, now plastered to his brow with sweat, and faded over time but still recognizable, I saw the unmistakable red sunburst of the Chantry.

* * *

**AN:**

This story was inspired first and foremost by the news from DA:I

[mini-SPOILER]

That Tranquility can, in fact, be cured if a mage is touched by a fade-spirit (or demon). Of course the hard part is making the spirit interested in interacting with a Tranquil person, as any demon would rather possess a pair of old socks – there might be more 'life' in them plus they don't resist.

And then I thought about Hawke. And Anders, who can make Tranquil feel again, if only temporarily. And the fact that Hawke's eyes glow red in the DA2 trailer. Red Lyrium makes eyes glow red. And it attracts demons. And then I thought about another story I have begun, 'Of Gods, Old and New', and thought it would be fun to combine the two ideas.

So, in short, this story is a result of not enough sleep, too much tea and is mostly my way of dealing with pre-exam stress. With Anders. And kittens. And tons of heartbreak. Hawke obviously is highly functional, mostly because there is...an imperfection in his being Tranquil. That's all I'll say for now. Also, I do not plan to retell DA2 plot. Well, I hope you enjoced this...teaser ;)


	2. Chapter 2: Anders

It was different from the brand the Kirkwall Chantry used, less perversely ostentatious. A plain circle and short rays, the mark was no less horrifying for its simplicity.

I couldn't tear my eyes away, frozen to the spot with a healing spell at the very tips of my fingers, forgotten. It had nearly undone me when I saw it on Karl, a man I had been, in my foolish optimism, already been envisioning a future with. We had a past, why not build something more on it? Together, we would free the mages of Thedas. I could not do it all on my own and I would have welcomed the help from somebody whom I could trust and rely on. Justice did not approve, but I needed a partner who was not inside my own head. And now that man was dead, lying not twenty feet away and the only difference between Tranquility and death was that his chest no longer rose, that he did not blink.

Hawke was looking at me. Not _through_ me like before, but into me, like I held the key to salvation itself in my bruised, bloodstained hands.

_What if he begged me to kill him like Karl had? _

For one split second I was sure he would and my stomach clenched painfully when I thought about his brother and friends. I couldn't breathe as panic welled up in my chest. _Please, no. No more death today._

Why did he suddenly matter so much? I guess it was because with the revelation came the understanding that Hawke was one of us, another mage who had suffered the cruel injustice of a world where being born with the gift of magic was considered a crime.

The moment passed when Hawke drew in a sharp breath and winced, one hand pressed to his side. With his head lowered to hang between his shoulders his face was once more hidden by the shadows, as were all expressions it might have borne.

Karl had said that he could feel Justice's presence inside me fade, as undoubtedly did Hawke. When whatever remnants of the connection to the Fade that Justice had opened dissipated so did the last of my strength.

Left behind was the hollow husk of a Fereldan refugee who had put up with months of living in Darkstown in the possibly least mage-friendly city in Thedas, all for naught. The shards of my life and shattered plans were lying around me in the colourful fragments of a kaleidoscope, never to be put together again. Where was Justice now? I would have given much to forget this night, to wipe it from my memory entirely.

Behind me I heard the dwarf's low voice as he approached cautiously, footsteps all but muffled by the opulent carpet. "Hawke, are you-?"

"I'm fine," the mercenary pressed out breathlessly in that mechanical way that meant nothing the like.

My hand fell limply from his back as Carver hauled his brother to his feet. Hawke grunted in pain and was standing hunched over, still holding his side. His dark bangs covered his brow and I wondered whether his friends knew. If those sideways looks I received were partly due to the fact that not a minute ago I had stuck my knife through the heart of a man just like him.

"Did anybody see my spleen? I think it left me. Through my back." Nobody so much as cracked a smile at the rogue's comment, but it had the desired effect of getting everybody to stop staring and move.

Varric handed Hawke a leather belt with something dangling from it – a pouch, one of the templars' with the flaming sword burned into its front. The mercenary slung it over his shoulder and Carver slipped under Hawke's right arm to support his brother who was none too steady on his feet.

"Let's get out of here," the mercenary grunted with a nod in the direction of the Chantry's double doors.

I stood as well. Nobody offered _me_ a hand. "Wait. You need healing," I called out only to find myself face to face with his guard friend. Or rather, face to the tip of her sword.

"What are you? Never mind, just stay away from him!"

"A good question," Varric threw in, appearing at the warrior's side out of nowhere, one of his hands landing on her arm. "That I'm afraid it will have to wait."

"You can't expect me to just let him go! What he did to those men; he is a monster. He should be arrested." It was difficult arguing the monster angle when you were covered in the blood of your slain enemies, their mangled corpses still cooling.

"Enough!" Hawke's voice, strained but with an edge to it like a well-honed sword, cracked through the silence of the Chantry. "Aveline, the templars attacked all of us. I did not see you or Carver throwing away your swords and surrendering. Nobody is getting arrested tonight."

I watched the sword waver and its tip lower, and only then did Varric's arm fell back to his side.

"Besides, what would it look like? We just happened to be in the Chantry, the four of us, in full gear for a nightly prayer session when a demon brigade popped out of the confessional?" the dwarf pointed out reasonably and muttered, "Not sure even I can make that sound plausible."

"I'm not prying one of those helmets off to see whether templars actually have something to fill them with," Hawke added, "But that might raise suspicion."

Under normal circumstances I would have approved of a joke at the expense of the Order, but today the jibe brought not even the faintest flicker of joy. These knights might be dead, but others would refill the ranks and the damage was already done. I could see Karl's body lying on the ground and wondered if he would be given a proper burial or if whoever found the bodies would just dump his into the Waking Sea.

The thought did not even shock me; I was numb, as if the very capability to experience emotions had died with Karl. _No, you are alive. That's why it hurts so much._ For a while I considered staying behind and facing the templars who would indisputably come, but I was tired and fury, no matter how righteous, would only carry me this far.

_There are mages out there who still need your aid. You'll be no good to them dead. _I could have almost believed they were my own thoughts. In a way they were, I reckoned.

_If you throw away your life who will avenge Karl? _

I gave in to the prompting, the promise of a reckoning and my own will to live and trailed after the group. Like the others I waited with baited breath and my heart hammering when Aveline checked that no more templars lurked outside the Chantry to surprise us.

Thankfully the courtyard, flooded in moonlight, was just as deserted as it had been when we had arrived. The sharp edges of our shadows were a harsh contrast to the pale marble that had been polished to a shine by centuries and countless feet passing over them. At least it wasn't quiet. I doubt I would have been able to stand that, but the ghostly cries of cicadas made shivers run down my spine.

"This way." Aveline took point and set a brisk pace that Hawke and Carver barely kept up. Next came Varric, who tossed a couple of uneasy glances back in my general direction.

Without any better plan, I followed, leaning heavily on my staff. It felt warm in my hands and the bleached white of the ancient dragon bone glowed with a soft diffuse light of its own. I barely noticed where I was going, but Aveline was steering us away from the Chantry, down some winding stairs and through streets where the peeling paint and chipped ornate figurines worked into the houses' facades stood testimony to better times.

Just when we were as good as clear of Hightown we heard shouts behind us, shortly followed by the ringing of the city bells. Voices carried far in the dead of night, but these were far too close for comfort.

"Sounds like we might have some company soon," Varric remarked dismally and reloaded his crossbow on the run.

"Aveline."

The redheaded woman stopped when Hawke gasped out her name, as did everyone else. Hawke let his arm fall from Carver's shoulders. I couldn't see his face, but by the way he held himself it was obvious he had not escaped the fight with the templars unscathed.

"Take Carver home."

"Sure, Hawke."

"What?" Said brother rounded on his sibling, arms crossed and a mulish expression on his face as he dug in his heels. "What about you?"

"I'll follow with," his gaze held mine for a moment, hard like the jaws of a steel trap, "Anders. But right now we're better off if we split up."

"I'm coming with you."

A sigh, then, "No, Carver. You're not."

"You cannot be serious, _brother_. You saw him do it," Carver hissed, but did not bother with lowering his voice. "He _killed_ him!"

"I was there," Hawke replied flatly.

"Maker!" Carver shook his head in disgust and cast me a dark glare, but his words were for his brother. "If the abomination kills you too, I'll let the next necromancer raise your corpse so _you_ can explain it to mother."

"Deal. Now go!" Hawke tossed the looted pouch at his brother who caught it deftly and waved his arm, more at Aveline than at Carver. Thankfully he moved, albeit reluctantly, before the guardswoman had to drag him away.

"Varric-"

"S' Alright, Hawke. We had an all-nighter drinking and playing cards in my suite in the Hanged Man. Come morning everybody will swear it's true."

A faint, mirthless smile pulled at the corner of Hawke's mouth. "I'll collect my winnings tomorrow then."

"Eh, don't push your luck." The dwarf paused momentarily when the sounds of pursuit grew louder. "Just get yourself to safety, Hawke."

The mercenary nodded and watched his friends disappear into the night before he turned to me. "If you have any magic left in you, I'd like to take you up on that offer of healing. If not, now would be a good time to start running."

I approached the rogue wearily, not sure if this wasn't some elaborate set-up that would end up with my dead body being handed over to the templars. Why Hawke would go to such lengths for the deception I could not fathom, but wouldn't it be easier and more beneficial to his friends if he did away with the apostate abomination?

But the man in front of me did not appear to be up for another tussle, sucking in air through clenched teeth. When my hand landed lightly on his side, I both heard and felt his breath hitch. I did not need to actually see the damage with my eyes though I usually preferred to conserve my magical resources. It had the added benefit of not sending my patients onto a fright at the first sight of my magic, but we now lacked the time for such subtlety.

Hawke was staring past my shoulder without blinking, probably checking whether those guards had caught up to us yet. It was easier when I did not have to look at him, so I closed my eyes, focused on the signals his body was sending me and blended out everything else. The mercenary had several cracked ribs, a hairline fracture through his collarbone and some bad bruising, both on the inside and the surface. If I had to guess I'd say one of the men we had fought had managed to slam his shield into his side.

I directed my magic at the worst of it, watched bone knit together, blood drain and swelling go down. In the back of my mind Justice grew restless. I was giving too much, but I pushed on until the magic drained away and I had no more to give. Hawke would have to live with being sore and stiff over a couple of days, but when he took his first deep breath without flinching some colour returned to his cheeks.

"Thank you."

I tried to answer, but my mouth felt funny and my ears rang and I concentrated on staying upright instead. Just then another yell pierced the silence around us, this time from the other side of the plaza.

The shadows gave us cover, but there was no missing the light of torches that suddenly illuminated the street. Templars. They had to have sensed my magic. Hawke's eyes went wide; he bolted and I followed close on his heels.

We ran for our lives.

Through winding alleys and narrow passages we darted, avoiding the main avenues and larger squares with the sound of our pursuit fading in the distance though no matter how many turns we took we could not shake them off out trail completely. I kept my eyes on Noah's back and nothing else. I knew we were nearing Lowtown when the streets became crooked and the cobblestones uneven, making the footing treacherous.

By then my hair was plastered to my face with sweat and despite the cool air I felt way too hot. My throat was dry and sore and I had no more magic left to heal away the pain in my side. With every step my calves cramped; I haven't had this much exercise since... too long. I have let myself wallow in indolence-

'Oh, shut up, Justice', I thought at myself. Now really wasn't the time for a lecture.

When Hawke stopped abruptly I almost knocked into him, but the rogue grabbed my coat's sleeve and pulled me into an arched doorway. A second later I heard footsteps and the quiet murmur of a large group of people. My heart jumped into my throat when I saw the flickering light of their torches glint off their armour and drawn weapons. Surely they would hear the pounding in my chest, any moment one of them would look to the side I thought as I tried to muffle my panting in the crook of my elbow and pressed myself against the rough wood, wishing it would give way and swallow us both. But guards passed and Hawke dragged me from our hiding place with the patrol not forty feet away. We tiptoed behind them and slipped once more into the dark of a deserted passageway and I dared to breathe freely again.

Not very long after getting away a new problem presented itself to us. The road we had taken was taking us downhill and it steadily veered off to the right. I heard Hawke grunt in frustration as another promising side street turned out to be a dead end. The rogue stopped and looked back as if he was considering going back, but eventually he shrugged and ploughed on.

At that point I was completely, utterly lost. This was not a part of Kirkwall I had been to before. There was also something about the city tonight that raised the hairs on my arms and at the back of my neck. Hawke and I were the only ones moving through the abandoned street on silent feet. The usual gangs were missing, thugs, thieves, bedraggled people clustering around lit braziers. Absent were also the seductive calls of whores plying their trade through occasionally I heard muted voices from one of the buildings.

"Is it always this empty?" I whispered, shivering when a cool breeze pierced my clothing, all too aware of the cold patches under my arms and on my back.

Hawke shook his head, one finger across his lips and a furrow between his brows. I got the message and did not speak again, but now I imagined unseen spectators watching us from behind broken and shuttered windows. Wide gaps in the crumbling facades of ruined houses formed impenetrable pools of black, sharp and uneven like broken teeth. Kirkwall's ghosts followed our every move and each time I whipped my head around at the slightest of sounds I thought I could see movement from the corners of my eyes. Except that nobody was there when I dared to look closer.

Without Hawke's serene presence at my side I would have panicked. One might think that after surviving the Deep Roads, a darkspawn invasion and an involuntary trip to the Fade my nerves were made of stronger things, yet none of the former things aroused the same primal terror in me as the templars.

We descended several steep flights of stairs after which the street levelled out again. At its end Hawke paused and I only knew where we were by the smell that hit me when we peered around the corner. Sea weed, salt and tar; we were close to the docks.

A large square opened before us, the sloshing of waves to our right and lofty arcades to our left. We kept to the shadows provided by the columns, neither of us thrilled at the prospect of crossing so much exposed space. It felt like a trap, a net closing ever tighter around us, for real this time and not just a product of my paranoia.

Through the rising mist I imagined I could see faint lights in the distance where I knew the Gallows rose from the sea. I did not fancy a swim in the icy water, but I would not shy away from it as a last resort. Hawke began to pace tight circles whilst I sank down next to a staple of crates on top of some sack with a rough spun covering that was riddled with holes atop.

The bundle spluttered and moved and I pitched sideways with a yelp. Just my luck, trying to sit on one of the beggars - or passed out sailors judging by the bottle clutched in the man's left hand. The lout was cursing, something about my ancestry, dogs and the creative but ultimately flagrant misuse of my staff while he tried to clamber upright, feet tangling in the blanket and I was scrambling backwards on all fours.

Hawke strode up to us in a few rushed steps and ripped the bottle out of the man's hands.

"Ya soddin' piece-a-dogshit, give tha' back!"

The mercenary whirled on the other man and knocked him out without ceremony or apology. It was only when silence fell over the place again that I realized the ruckus that we must have made. I had barely picked myself up when shouting resounded seemingly all around us.

"Sorry." I wasn't sure whom Hawke was addressing – the unconscious lowlife or me – when he tipped the bottle and poured its foul contents over the front of my coat. My _good_ coat.

"Come."

I was too worn out to feel as much as a spark of indignation and followed without question. It was easier than thinking on my own and my companion appeared to know what he was doing. Some part of me was wondering whether this dratted night would never end as we zigzagged in a way that reminded me of nothing so much as the flight pattern of a rabbit.

It was easy to imagine the barking of orders to be the one of dogs as we were driven from one alley to another and into a seedier part of town. This time instead of fading, the voices grew steadily louder.

When in front of us we suddenly saw the telltale flicker of fire, we took another sharp turn into a side street that was barely wide enough for me to stand in with my arms stretched out. It was almost utterly dark, but the loss of sight did not stop me from being able to smell rotting fish and urine. I found myself pressed against the wall with my staff digging uncomfortably into my back and watched the cone of light creep over the cobblestones, ever closer. The guards were at the street's entrance, close enough I could hear the heavy stomp of their feet and the fainter, higher sound of armour jingling. How many would there be? Could we fight our way out without alerting all of their friends? I highly doubted it, but at the same time I had no more strength to run, not that there was a place we could run to, having backed ourselves into a corner as we had.

The first few guards passed us by without catching sight of the fugitives but if only one did, then they would know we had been the ones running away by our harsh breathing alone. That very moment the light of their torches found us and I blinked as I found myself blinded, raising one hand to ward off the light. Hawke dropped to his knees just as two templars broke away from the group to investigate. I was frozen, too afraid to be bothered by the close proximity of his face and my crotch.

"Hold! In the name of- "

"Wha- " Hawke staggered upright, palming me in the process and then the wall in support. Bottle in hand and wobbling precariously on his feet he rounded on the dumbstruck men.

"Wassup!? Ya two, get yar own alley!" he slurred with a very explicit and rather rude gesture that sent the liquid sloshing in the bottle.

I pressed myself harder against the stone, my hands moist and fingers splayed against the rough concrete, too scared to laugh at their faces. Disgust and surprise warred for the more prominent expression, quickly followed by anger.

"You there, you are out past curfew! State your business or face the Order's judgement!"

The white of Hawke's teeth flashed as he grinned. I saw him wipe the back of his hand over his mouth. "That's a sovereign. But fer ya gentlemen, it'll be two."

The younger of the templars looked like he was going to vomit. His senior found his bearings quicker, though he appeared just as shocked. "Did you see anybody else?" he asked brusquely and visibly uncomfortable, but not willing to flee with his younger charge as witness.

"Yeah... tha' way." Hawke took a drag from the bottle, belched and pointed in a direction we most certainly had not come from and they beat a hasty retreat. "Bloody Marshers," he threw after the warriors. One of them turned and my heart skipped its next beat. Then his friend thumped him with his armed gauntlet on the breastplate and the templars moved on. Nobody wasted precious time on Fereldan scum. When they were gone, darkness surrounded us once more.

My legs only kept me up because the floor was too disgusting to sink down onto.

"That was close," Hawke stated with something akin to good cheer and proffered his crooked arm like a lord would to his lady at a ball.

Elation of having gotten away quickly abated to be replaced by a feeling of hollowness and exhaustion. I blinked at him without understanding until the meaning sank in and I managed to raise my eyebrows. "Really?"

"A drunken couple will draw less attention than a pair of- ," at this point he gestured at himself and at me. I could see him, dishevelled and dirty and smell the sweat and blood on both of us and suddenly I was glad he had not said more.

"We're not drunk." I did not want to touch on the 'couple' part because that made my insides feel like they were filled with shards of glass.

"Speak for yourself. I intend to be before sunup."

I accepted Hawke's arm, too weary to argue. When he offered me the bottle of – whatever it was that he had taken from the beggar – I found that I was in dire need of a spirit other than the one I already carried with me. I cast a quick cleansing spell before I took a deep gulp and immediately swallowed the possibly most gods-awful swill I had ever tasted. At least it was potent, even if it tasted horrendously like something that might have been brewed from old socks, machine grease and the solution I used to clean my medical instruments with.

"Tastes like demon," Hawke muttered and hysterical laughter bubbled up in me and spilled out, shattering the quiet of the night. It was too loud and too shrill, and not really a merry sound, but it eased something in me. There were so many questions swirling inside my head and even more things I felt like I should explain, but this was neither the time nor the place. Thus they went unsaid and the only thing that passed between us was the bottle. Back and forth, until it was empty and Hawke shattered it against the wall of a particularly rundown building.

We passed by three entrances to Darktown because there were templars hovering next to each one. I should have known they would be watched, after all, what better place was there for a criminal to escape to? The mercenary's shoulders had drawn up with tension and his head hung a bit more every time before we came across an unguarded flight of stairs. Hawke had his hands showed deep down the pockets of his trousers, but he removed one to point to our right.

"There's the stairs. Stay low." His lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but then he shook his head once and turned away without another word. I watched until his hunched figure became one with the night.

Later I would not recall how I had found my way back to my clinic. With blood and that vile swill all over me even the residents of the Undercity gave me a wide berth. If my younger self could see me now that Anders would have rethought that last escape from the Circle. Or maybe not. I have been told I was incorrigible.

I felt marginally better when I slid the massive bolts in place behind me. If a templar brigade wanted to crash through them, I would hear it, of that I was sure. I knew I was deadbeat when I considered curling up on the floor, but my feet carried me to the water pump of their own accord. I was shaking so badly it took me several tries before I had the water running. I watched the water turn the colour of rust as I washed my hands of blood – the templars', _Karl's_ and choked back a sob.

I couldn't face what had happened tonight at the Chantry, not whilst it still was so fresh, like a wound in my chest, raw and aching. In a few hours' time the clinic would be once more flooded with refugees that would require my undivided attention. What I needed was sleep. I stumbled through the dark into the room at the back that was my own, my only solace for the night that Justice kept all dreams from me.

It was only when I sat down on my cot and removed my clothing and a white bundle fell into my lap that I realized I still had the maps.


	3. Chapter 3: Hawke

As soon as the battered door to Gamlen's house, a rundown hovel which the Hawkes were forced to call their home, came into view, Noah was greeted by deep barking that echoed through Lowtown's slums. Somebody had used white chalk paste to paint the heraldry of the City of Chains, the stylized dragon of the Imperium upon the eroded, rusty metal. Signs like these, remnants of when Tevinter had ruled over these lands appeared everywhere all over Kirkwall and Noah just knew that his mother was going to make him scrub it off when she saw it.

With the thought the dull throbbing just above the rogue's left eye intensified and he reached up to rub his brow though that never made the headache go away. And Hawke's head was far from the only thing that hurt. He shuffled along, every step sending a painful jolt from his hip up to his shoulder. Before he reached the short flight of stairs the doors opened a fraction wide and muted light spilled out. Hawke heard a scratching noise followed by a whine and then Maul pushed past the door and into view, claws skittering over stone.

"Down, boy," Hawke greeted his Mabari, not because the dog had done something wrong, but because he wasn't sure he would survive two hundred and fifty pounds of war hound leaping at him in welcome. Maul backed up and settled for wagging his stubby tail and licking the back of his master's hand.

Noah absent-mindedly scratched the dog behind its ear and when he looked up Carver was standing in the doorframe with his arms crossed, a disapproving frown on his face and a stained cloth in one hand. "So the abomination did not kill you."

"Why, brother, you sound _so_ disappointed," Hawke retorted but the sarcasm fell flat as he couldn't muster much heat to put into the words. It was late and he was tired as well as sore and confused. "Couldn't let me indulge in the illusion that I have a family that _cares_?"

Carver glared as his brother pushed past him, the corners of his mouth tugging downwards, but he stepped back to let his sibling enter and closed the door behind Maul.

"Must you crush my dreams so brutally?" Hawke toed off his boots and put them in the cabinet to his right, slipping his feet into the soft slippers they wore in the house. One of Leandra's rules and he was not going to antagonize her over something so trivial if it made her happy. Even if it was, in the end, a hopeless cause. Dirt seemed to be an essential component of Gamlen's house. With fresh mud trodden on the floor at least he would know what it was that made it so sticky.

They had been anything but wealthy back in Lothering, but their cottage had been neat and clean. Hawke remembered the colourful embroidery and decorative doilies his mother had made to brighten up the rustic furniture and floors that were sanded and scrubbed and strewn with sweet rushes. It had been home, simple as that.

"Hawke." Aveline had been sitting at the kitchen table but she stood when the rogue stepped into the room, followed by his brother and dog. He noticed that she was in her guard uniform again and wondered whether she had stayed for his sake or to prevent Carver from doing something stupid like running after him. "You got yourself into trouble."

It wasn't a question and he did not bother denying it. "We ran into templars. And guards, in that order. They cornered us in a side-street."

Aveline remained standing while Carver sank down in one of the rickety chairs. If possible, he looked even more put out than he had before, his frown having turned into an outright scowl. "How did the mighty Noah Hawke escape? Did you fight your way through legions of templars? Will the Order come knocking on our door first thing in the morning?"

Aveline had called Carver a tit, once. She hadn't been entirely wrong about that.

Hawke edged past the redheaded guard and scooted along the narrow bench until he was wedged between the table and the wall. "I went down on my knees and pretended to blow _the abomination_ in a street where even Isabella wouldn't let herself be seen."

That wiped the scorn right off Carver's face.

"Why, brother? Would you have liked to be there? I can give you details. I was pretty close to his- staff."

Carver choked, eyes going wide and flushed a vivid scarlet while Aveline muttered a strangled _Maker's Balls, Hawke"_.

For his part, the mercenary needed something to cut the pain. He didn't like getting drunk, that sensation when alcohol took the edge off what happened around him, turning it soft and blurry and robbed him of the clarity of his thoughts in addition to making his body disobey him. It had not always been like that, but dwelling on things past had never improved the _now_ and that bloody templar had gotten him good when the apostate healer had done his glowing trick. He had _heard_ his bones break. The pain hit him a moment later and for all their bickering, Hawke was glad his little brother had been there to keep that templar bastard from finishing him off when he was down.

The rogue undid a buckle and carefully slipped out of the self-made harness that held his weapons and tossed the daggers on the table to join Carver's sword. He then flipped a back part of the bench up and reached inside the secret compound, fingers feeling around.

"What are you looking for?" Carver had gone back to rubbing oil into his blade, but his gaze flicked up when he heard his brother rummaging about.

"It's where Gamlen keeps the good stuff," Hawke replied and pulled a bottle out by its neck. The label looked fancy, just like anything Orlesian and the liquid inside was a rosy gold. "Aveline, could you- ?"

She handed him two glasses and set them down before he could finish his question.

"Thanks."

"Where does he even get it?" By all means Carver appeared to have forgotten that he was cross with his brother.

"He steals it." Hawke poured with a raised eyebrow at Aveline and when she waved him off continued, "Goes to the Rose and spends twenty silver on... whatever and they never suspect anything when he sneaks out with a bottle or two."

"How do you know?"

"I followed him, once. Back when he found where we stored the bribe money from Harimann," Hawke said before he could catch himself.

Aveline sighed, eyes at the soot-stained ceiling. "I'll just pretend I didn't hear that."

"He'll be so pissed," Carver cackled with malicious glee and sipped the liquid, nodding his appreciation at the taste.

Good. If he focused his hatred on their uncle, he might lay off Hawke for a while. The rogue raised his own glass to his lips and emptied half of it in three big gulps, his eyes prickling slightly with the burn. A smooth, slightly fruity cognac, the drink was meant for better than being chugged down like tavern ale, but all Hawke cared about right now was getting shitfaced enough so he could fall on his bed and pass out.

Just then there was a soft noise from the back and a moment later the curtain dividing the room was pulled back and Leandra, dressed in a nightshirt and with her silver hair in a braid for the night, paddled into the kitchen. She blinked at light, but when she saw her son, not one second passed before her arms were around him. "Oh, darling. I was so worried when Carver came home without you."

"I'm fine, mother," Noah mumbled into his glass. He never quite got around to inventing a better lie.

"How did your job go?" She asked softly with a sideways glance at the bottle of hard liqueur. She did not comment on it, and if her lips grew just that bit thinner she just brushed her hand through his unruly hair in that way he liked and he knew they weren't getting a dressing down this time.

"Badly. Really, _really_ badly."

Leandra nodded, her other hand tightening on her eldest's shoulder. She had learned not to ask for more when her sons were sitting around the table, drinking and cleaning blood off their blades.

Aveline chose that moment to stir. "Right. Hawke's safe and I need to go," she announced and picked up her own sword and shield which had been leaning in the corner.

"You are welcome to stay."

"Thank you", Leandra. "But I have to join the guard. Otherwise they will wonder where I have been for so long."

"Tell them the truth," Hawke suggested. "Your friend got busted by an organized gang of thugs and you visited him at home."

"Your definition of truth, or rather the omission thereof worries me, Hawke," she replied, but though her tone was serious, there was the faintest of smiles playing around Aveline's mouth. Though she heeded the law, she was no more above abusing its loopholes than he was. It was a good excuse and they both knew it.

"There's nothing for you to worry about," Hawke assured her. "I'll be good." After having downed one glass of cognac he even managed a lopsided grimace that wouldn't quite pass for a smile before adding, "For tonight."

Aveline did not deign the comment with a reply and only thanked Leandra for the tea and assured her she would come over tomorrow for dinner. When the redheaded woman took her leave, Leandra locked the door and wished her sons a good night before she retreated into her half of the room, pulling the curtain shut after her.

"Good night mother," Hawke and Carver replied in unison. They worked alongside each other, though Carver laid off the drink after finishing his. His brother cleaned and oiled his blades first, then brushed out his sheaths since had sheathed his daggers bloody after the fight at the Chantry. At the time there wasn't anything else he could have done with them though. When he was done he put the leather down and rested his forearms on the table.

"Did you get the maps?"

Hawke paused with his glass halfway to his lips. "I forgot." He tossed the liquor back and poured himself another. Was it his third, or-?

"You _forgot_?" Carver repeated, much louder than was warranted. As if he had not understood his brother the first time.

From the other end of the house they heard a thud that sounded suspiciously like a kick against the wall and which was followed by Gamlen's cursing, the man's voice rough from either sleep or drink. "Shut up, you blighters!"

"How could you forget?" Carver continued, ignoring their uncle and Hawke noted that the whiny note that had been absent for a whole half hour had crept back into his voice.

"I was rather busy running away" the rogue answered, his last words distorted by a wide yawn. He'd take care of his armour tomorrow, he decided and got up.

"Yeah. Right." Carver muttered under his breath and snorted without humour.

Hawke swatted at the back of his brother's head, aiming too low because he knew Carver would try to duck away. It connected with a satisfying smack.

Maybe Hawke shouldn't have mentioned how he had gotten away, but he had done it to shut his brother up and embarrassment was usually the quickest way to achieve just that. As long as the runaway Warden did not take off with the maps that were now rightfully theirs, it mattered little whether they got them today or a few days later. Still, it irked a bit how they had completely slipped his mind. Well, it looked like Hawke had an excuse to see the healer again. He knew the man was quite dangerous, as well as... an abomination. There was no doubt about it; his father had taught him how to avoid and recognize possession, though the former wasn't a concern of his any longer.

So the healer was Hawke's first up-close encounter with an abomination. It was quite fascinating, truth be told. Perhaps he should invite him over for tea someday. The blonde man didn't only have the maps they needed, but also valuable knowledge. Knowledge that might save lives; theirs not at least. And what he had done...

Noah had _felt_ it. Had felt him blast a gateway to the Fade so wide, it actually might have been a good thing he was already lying down on the ground when the rush of emotions crashed into him like a charging Mabari.

Hawke swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and tickling. He needed to talk to the man. The rogue grabbed his journal and scribbled 'TALK TO HEALER' in bold letters that were all lopsided and made him realize how drunk he really was. After a pause he added 'ANDERS'. It looked more right this way for a reason he could not determine.

Carver was watching his brother's doings with interest and Hawke nudged his foot with his own and pointed at his armour. "Help me."

Undoing some of the buckles required rather more stretching than he was willing to do at the moment. Carver opened all the clasps that Hawke could not reach and when the chest piece came off, the rogue shivered at the stab of cold air. He contemplated cutting his shirt open, but his brother helped him pull that off as well, tossing the cloth carelessly into the corner.

His side was a mosaic of bruises of all colours, shapes and sizes. Thankfully his mother wasn't here to see it, or she wouldn't let him out of her sights again. Hawke ran his fingers over his ribs and winced, but though the slightest touch hurt like mad, nothing gave away under the pressure. Maul whined and nudged Hawke's hand with his nose. The mercenary patted his head, poured himself another shot of cognac and tossed it back. He was aware of its effects now, a light-headedness that made him sway on his feet and his eyes close of their own accord.

"Have we got any of the elfroot poultice left?" he yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and felt something in his jaw pop.

Carver answered with a curt nod and pushed off the table. "I'll get it."

Hawke rubbed a liberal amount of salve into his aching muscles and his brother helped him wrap linen bandages around his chest. He then changed into a threadbare shirt and his sleeping pants. They did have a fireplace but wood was expensive in Kirkwall and the nights were cold. Not the brittle damp frost of Ferelden, but a chill that mother said was born of the hopelessness and misery of this place and seeped into the very bones of those unfortunate enough to reside in the poor quarters.

Hawke gingerly lowered himself onto the mattress and a moment later the orange glow behind his eyelids turned to pitch black and the smell of smoke reached his nose. Carver had pinched out the candle and climbed up the ladder and into his bed, making the entire structure sway and creak. They had bunked together in the beginning before they could afford separate beds. By comparison things were much better already and if the expedition paid off...

Hawke let his thoughts drift as he stretched out on his right side and arranged himself in a comfortable position before his limbs grew too heavy to move. With the help of the alcohol and the medicine the pain had further faded to a distant soreness. He did not know exactly what damage the templar had done, but whatever else Anders was, he was a damned good healer to have put Hawke back together as quickly as he had done. Without his magic the rogue wouldn't have made it one step further from where he had called a stop.

There was a loud crack as a heavy weight landed on Hawke's bed. Wood groaned in protest, then Maul licked his left big toe before he curled over his master's feet with a huff.

"Noah?" Carver's voice floated down through the darkness and the sounds of a house settling down for the night. He sounded hesitant, reluctant almost.

"Hm?" Hawke hummed into his pillow. With his eyes closed the whole world around him was moving in a gentle rocking motion. He was half asleep already.

"Do you think _he_ can help you?"

"I don't know, brother. I don't know." But he intended to find out.

* * *

**AN:** I have made a rough drawing of what I imagine Gamlen's house to look like. You can find it on the AO3 version of this story. The names are the same and there's also a link on my profile.


	4. Chapter 4: Anders

**AN:** kurakaji and Halfblood Fiend, thank you both very much for your reviews. I will continue working on this story whenever I can.

* * *

In spite of the exploits of the night before I slept poorly and woke early, bleary-eyed and bone-weary. Pale, grey pre-dawn light was streaming through the cracks between the boards nailed across my windows. At least, I liked to call them windows. It made the place sound homier.

One side of my clinic opened against the cliffs that Kirkwall was built upon. At some point a part of the tunnel must have caved in, which was no surprise since there were more passageways hewn in this rock than there were holes in a Jader cheese. It had opened up a large space that I had now claimed as my own.

With a loud whistle that sounded more like a tortured moan a gust of wind made the shutters rattle in their frames and the wood groan. On the upside living here meant that I had a lot of access to fresh air and did not have to breathe in the putrid stink of the sewers all day long because the stiff breeze chased the foul humours away. On the downside it made the clinic positively icy and I shivered as I hid beneath my threadbare blanket, fully clothed except for my shoes and the bloodstained coat I had not bothered to clean yesterday. I was not sure what I would do come winter.

Me and every other poor sod who ventured down here in the hope of healing. As busy as the summer had been, I was sure the cold season would be worse. I'd have to talk to Lirene about it. She had to know a few workers who would be willing to help me repair the walls. I had treated many and charged none, and besides, it would be an investment very much in their own interest. This healer was the only one willing to treat Fereldan refugees for free; they'd better make sure he didn't freeze to death.

Another waft and I pulled my knees up to my chest and the blanket over my head. It wasn't of any use, the wind's cold fingers found all the holes, and that place at the small of my back where my shirt had ridden up, and caressed my skin, causing goosebumps to rise. I gave another full-bodied shiver and cursed, throwing back the covers.

I was awake; I might as well make myself useful.

As much as I hated to, I sat up and rubbed sand out of my eyes. In the gloom I could just make out the outline of my boots at the foot end of my camp bed. I slipped into them and groaned at the cold and damp my poor toes were now trapped in and slung the blanket across my shoulders. As I trudged out of my tiny room at the back of the clinic I realized how my soles stuck to the floor with a wet squelching sound. I looked down to see that my boots were caked in filth, mud and blood and things I didn't care to identify closer. A spell took care of most of that. You weren't a proper Ferelden unless you had your very own, special ways to deal with the various kinds of mud.

I refocused on my magic and warmed some water next. The fire I lit the normal way, and when it was crackling merrily, radiating a pleasant warmth that slowly began to chase away the chill, I stood next to the fireplace and hastily cleaned myself up with the help of a washcloth and some soap that smelled faintly of herbs. A gift, I never spent coin on anything lush anymore. Lye and lard it was for me, never mind that I wouldn't have allowed for that stuff to touch my skin not too long ago.

My soiled coat I let soak in what was left of the now lukewarm water and dressed in my spare, the one I had come to Kirkwall in. I was loath to wear it out in the open, afraid despite the impossibly low odds that somebody might recognize it. It was well worn now but still flashy, patches of leathers in various clashing colours, the combination of which had offended Nate's eyes in particular, and made me look just like the peacock I once had been.

By the time I was finished it was no longer dark. Instead my clinic was cast into various shades of grey, all of them equally drab and depressing. I unlatched the door and lit the lantern that hung above it, a garish red thing that I was sure had once belonged to a brothel. Just as I was about to turn and head back, I saw movement out of the corner of my eyes, drawing on my magic by instinct.

"Healer, ser!" A boy came running, clutching a basket to his chest.

"Pod, wasn't it?" I asked. I had a vague recollection of treating him a short time after I had arrived in Kirkwall. Now he was working for Lirene, though she changed the person carrying the provisions donated to me as often as she could. The precaution made it easier to outmanoeuvre the starving refugees, those who would literally kill for a meal.

"Yessir." The boy grinned, bucktoothed, and thrust the basket into my arms. Then he was off again, gone before I could say goodbye.

Inside, wrapped in a rough linen cloth, I found two loaves of bread, a piece of hard cheese, a bushel of apples and a sack full of nuts as well as carrots, two turnips, half a celery root, a bone, and some wilted greens that would make a thin and tasteless stew.

My mouth began to water at the mere thought of cooking supper. Out of all the drawbacks of being a Grey Warden, the constant hunger gnawing at my insides had to be by far the worst. It hadn't been as bad back at the Vigil, where the kitchens were open at all times and a midnight raid on the pantry was par for the course. A group of Wardens tended to eat... a _lot_. Though a part of our ravenous appetite might be attributed to how much work we had to do back then. Rest was a luxury we couldn't afford when all the signs had pointed towards the Blight not being quite as over as everyone might have believed at first.

When we weren't practicing under the Commander's watchful eye, we were always tracking through the countryside, chasing darkspawn. Between fortifying the keep, establishing connections in Amaranthine, finding new, efficient and occasionally fun ways to kill our blighted foes we were busy people indeed. I have even taken upon myself the extracurricular task of annoying Nathaniel. Then, one time, there had been that food orgy...

The daydream burst like a bubble of soap and I realized that I was standing in the middle of my clinic with a silly smile on my face. I sat down on a three-legged stool and managed not to pitch face-first into the fireplace. Singed eyebrows had been big in style at the Circle, but I have always found that particular look of magical experiment gone wrong didn't really suit me.

I ate half a loaf and two apples and put away the rest of the victuals, trying to ignore the vortex sucking at the pit of my stomach as well as the fact that I still had bread left. I would like to do nothing more than gorge myself on it, but I had to make the food last.

As I brushed the crumbs from my lap and stood, I heard shouts, and the tread of so many feet, it left ripples on the surface of the kettle which hung above the fire. Usually the only thing to cause such a tumult was when the guards raided the Undercity in one of their sporadic attempts to lower the criminality. But they were usually preceded by runners calling out to all the residents to barricade themselves inside their shacks. Those who did not even have a makeshift hovel to call their own would slink deeper into the bowels of the earth to hide in the sewer tracts. The commotion increased in volume, punctured by the occasional high-pitched scream.

Maker; that sounded bad.

I hazarded a peek outside, ready to slam shut the doors at a moment's notice, and bolt to for the back exit – a convenient connection to the parallel tunnels that I had blasted open back when I had moved in. But all I saw was a ragtag band of people, many of them carrying others. Lowtown folks, because none of them looked quite as bedraggled as those who dwelled in Darktown.

There was no glint of armoured figures amongst them, however, and the serpent that had curled around my chest loosened its hold. I took a deep breath, swallowing bile, and threw open the doors.

The throng of refugees that burst into my clinic was more than I could handle on my own. Thankfully Lilley could send one of her boys for aid; otherwise I would have been hopelessly swarmed.

From what little I could make out as I darted from one wounded man to another, a boiler with molten metal had exploded in one of the foundries. It was ugly, but it was something to keep me busy through the coming days. I hated myself for the thought as much as I thanked the Maker for the distraction. There was only so long I could think of coats and mud, drown in memories of the past to forget those of yesterday.

My occasional assistant, another apostate who had decided to go into hiding in the city instead of running away, arrived a few moments later. I ordered her to cut bandages from cloth and to brew more potions, and went to gauge the wounds, separate the workers by the degree of their injury. It was a hard, pragmatic way of thinking and the detachment necessary to treat these people gave me strength. As a healer, I would function for as long as I was needed.

The hours that followed I spent cutting away metal that had fused with flesh and applying cold magic to numb the pain. Burn wounds were a nightmare to treat, constantly oozing fluids, the charred skin cracking open. My clinic was filled with the moans of the injured, and the weeping of their loved ones.

I suffered a moment of panic when I realized that nothing we did would be enough, there were just too many of them for Doreen and me to treat. Then one of the women – I still do not know her name – organized the injured labourers' relatives and friends into work groups, each of them assigned a task of their own.

The hours blurred together into an endless fight for the lives placed into my hands. I healed, with scalpel and catgut, salve and magic until when I turned to the next task, it was to find that there was nothing more to do. Doreen was asleep, curled up in the corner and the workers' family members were standing clustered around the cots. I told them to wake me if one of the injured showed signs of rapidly getting worse, draped a shawl over my assistant's sleeping form and fell face-first into my cot, bloody coat and shoes be damned.

oooo

The next days were not as bad as the first one, an accident with a moored ship at the docks and a man who had been beaten up badly by thugs, an elderly woman with a sore tooth and of course the foundry workers who had to be looked after. I sent out Doreen to collect some more spindleweed, and boiled and exchanged bandages, brewed poultices, applied cold water and magic where I could.

The families of the wounded brought groats and broth to feed the injured and _their_ healer, as I was now called, and a couple were even willing to apply a little elbow grease and help me further take care of my patients. In its own way, Kirkwall could still surprise. In a city rife with strife, where no one saw eye to eye, where neighbours fought feuds over generations, and misery settled in like soot in the cracks of the masonry, it was still possible for something like this to happen. United by a common goal, driven by love and not hate, the refugees divided the workload between them, and toiled alongside me.

I could drown myself in work and forget this was anything but the most ordinary of days in Darktown and I did.

But in the few breaks I took, it hit me. Karl was dead. Like so many times before, I had been too late. No matter how much I did, it was never enough.

I lost two of the men suffering from the worst injuries and I might have thrown up from exhaustion or sight of my magic winking out, and their still, covered forms, yet I could not afford to waste the food I had been given. I needed the strength, though I wanted nothing more than to forget, to barricade myself behind walls and grief. I did not want to be hugged by the mother of some boy who would not end up a cripple begging at some street corner of the docks. Because of me. I did not want these desperate, crying, grateful people to squeeze me hands and tell me how I had saved their family.

Those who lived were simply the fortunate ones. Those who weren't passed away, with their relatives silently beseeching me with their eyes until I shook my head and the quiet was replaced by wailing and anger. And I was left to question my own choices, whether there was something I could have done, a detail I might have overlooked. Maybe if I had acted sooner–

Such futile thoughts plagued me whenever I wasn't keeping busy. Death was an every medic's constant companion. I knew that, yet deep down it didn't feel right, that I couldn't help all. That the cards the Maker dealt us were as inequitable. Where was the justice in that?

oooo

I did not leave clinic for days. There was too much to do, with the workers recovering I had to replenish my stock of medical supplies. By the time Lirene paid me a visit, things had pretty much calmed down again. She had brought tea and dry biscuits that I eyed suspiciously, but hopefully not too obviously. I did not want to appear ungrateful, but the grey lumps of grain looked like and had the constancy of Fereldan dog treats. Thankfully they proved to be mostly tasteless. I nibbled on one and then dunked it in my tea to soften it, eating more because it gave me something to do than because I was hungry.

Lirene updated me on everything that was going on in the city above me; on how the shop was running, and that the viscount had once more refused an audience with the representatives of the Fereldan refugees. She told me of a quenched riot in the Alienage, but I sensed she was holding back on something. When, leaning forward in evident excitement, she finally divulged that during the night of the twelfth somebody had killed a squad of templars in the Chantry, I had to force myself to keep breathing.

Of course. What else had I expected? "That was... ," I frowned because I was no longer sure, "Three days ago?"

"Five," Lirene corrected me with a shake of her head. Her eyes, kind but heavily lined despite her still young age, regarded me with sympathy.

"Ah." I clenched my fingers to prevent my hand from toying with my hair. "And did they find the guilty ones?" I asked, nervously. I was a terrible liar. Cousland had always said so.

"No, but half of Hightown is under lockdown," Lirene replied, voice lowering from habit. "Templars at every corner."

She wanted me to keep the biscuits. I thanked her for the kindness and watched her retreat shortly after, assuring myself that she reached the nearest stairs without incident. The biscuits I put away on a shelf; next time I had a patient with a bad tooth, I'd let them bite down on one.

Her words though, lingered. I sank down on one of the cots, head cradled in my hands, considering if I should really chance this madness. Did I have any other choice? I had committed to the cause a long time ago.

It was the best time. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until the blackness was chased away by bright spots. Only then did I lift my head and look around my clinic. There were plenty of bloodstained bandages lying around that I haven't gotten around to burning yet. I grabbed one and wrapped it over my knee and calf, tying it into a sloppy knot.

oooo

Stepping into the courtyard of the Gallows very much felt like that one time we had ventured into the lair of the monstrous, talking broodmother who had been responsible for the attack on Vigil's Keep. I was queasy, whether from the short ferry ride or the nerves, I did not know. Affecting a limp and leaning heavily on my staff, I turned in a circle, just as somebody who had never been here before might.

The bronze statues of weeping slaves did nothing to placate my fears. They weren't a tribute, a memorial to the slaves of Tevinter. They were here to instil fear in the current citizens of the Gallows. Such was the love the Chantry bore for those of her children who were born with magic.

But it wasn't the statues' gaze I feared. Clad in metal, eyes not visible through the narrow slits of the helmets the templars seemed just as inhuman. I would have known something had happened even had I not been in the very midst of the events that had transpired at the Chantry. The gates to the Gallows were closed, but the few templars on duty let visitors in through a side door.

"I need medicine," I told my boots when it was my turn, shifting to ease my weight off my 'wounded' leg, hands clenched around my staff. They were suitably dirty and worn, as was the rest of me. I probably stank, too.

Maker, I hoped the staff would not give me away, but I could not stand to be here without it. Walking sticks were the tool and weapon of the common man, I told myself. Hardly anybody journeyed without one. They did not only serve as a walking aid, but could also be used to fight off wild animals and bandits alike. Many people attached nails or rusty pieces of metal to form makeshift weapons, my mind rambled on.

And then I was allowed to pass, limping away from the knights of the Order as quickly as I could without raising suspicion. Solivitus' stand was at the far back of the courtyard, wedged in next to that of some poor tranquil woman and massive portcullis that were never lifted. A Formari herbalist with barely enough magical power to light a candle, he was one of the few non Tranquil mages allowed to set up shop outside the Gallows.

Sol's eyes went wide when he saw me, but he recovered gracefully and cheerfully asked, "What can I do for you, good man?" Beneath his breath, barely moving his lips, he muttered, "You are taking a grave risk coming here, my friend."

"I had to." I pointed at my leg in the hope of fooling any templars who might be watching our exchange.

Sol nodded, his eyes darting around the courtyard in a practiced manner all Circle mages adopted sooner or later, his hands idly ghosting over his goods. "There was some incident at the Chantry. It's all everybody talks about anymore, and Maker, it's a mess. Meredith is furious because she cannot find those responsible and the templars are furious. They're going to crack down even harder now."

"I wouldn't know about that," I answered hoarsely and licked my dry lips. Pulled out my purse. Pretended to haggle. I never meant my actions to have an impact on the other mages. Their lives were hard enough without me adding to their plight. Andraste's tits, what have we done? But now that I was here, I could not back out. Sol was part of the underground movement that saw mages to freedom, but I did not have the time to explain, and I owed Hawke a duty of confidentiality for he had shown me the same courtesy. Besides, that wasn't why I was here. "I need you to find out something for me," I began. "I need to know who... ," my throat burned, voice faltering for the briefest of moments before I could resume, "I need to know who performed the Rite on Karl."

"Anders– "

"Please." I had nothing to offer him, for Sol had already refused freedom, but I hoped he would do this one favour for me. Just this. Just this once.

"Karl was my friend, too." Sol sighed, caving under my unflinching gaze. "I will look into it." He sounded despondent at the thought, but he had agreed and I believed that he would do what he promised to. I bought the supplies he had meanwhile stapled on top of his counter, and Sol pressed one more jar than I had asked for into my hand. The label read 'Use on Intimate Area, 2-3 times a day for a week'. Under different circumstances I might have laughed, but this time I only pocketed the goods with a nod and left.

oooo

When I came back to my clinic, feeling absolutely drained from my venture, it was to find that I had visitors. And not the good kind.

There were five men loitering about the clinic, one of them leaning with his hip cocked against the operation table. I recognized them for who they were by their, shifty eyes, dirty hands and clean blades. They belonged to the Coterie of my name was Ser Irontin. The question was only, which part of the Coterie? Last I checked there were nine fractions, and at least three of them were in perpetual war with each other and the remaining ones. Any alliances forged were fragile and unreliable at best.

"You the healer?" the leader of the group asked me almost as soon as I was through the door.

"What do you want?" , I asked, doing my damnest to sound intimidating.

One of the men in the back chuckled, showing just how badly I had failed. "Cheeky bastard for a dog lord, ain't he?" he asked.

"Don't look much like a lord o' anythin' to me," another one sniggered. "'Cept o' the sewers, maybe."

"Ah." The leader grinned to the first thug's comment, gracing me with a smile that showed a very incomplete set of teeth. And without having had a run-in with Lirene's bakery, at that. "We can fix that."

"Look." It never did much good, reasoning with types like these, but I tried. "I thought we had a deal."

"You have a deal with Roslyn," serah toothless replied, his voice as oily as his hair. "This is Brekker's territory."

I suspected Roslyn might yet have something to say about the matter. Too bad she wasn't here. My gaze swept over the lowlifes invading my clinic. The arse who had first spoken was still leaning on my table. The table I used to heal my patients on. He had no right to spread his filth over it like that. I felt the familiar anger rise inside me, but unlike at other times, I did nothing to push it down. It had not been an idle threat of mine when I had told Hawke that I was ready to protect my clinic against all those who would jeopardize my calling.

And, bubbling beneath the surface, incensing me until I did not even feel the bite of my nails against my palm, nor the rapid beat of my heart inside my chest, I wanted somebody to pay. I couldn't get my hands on Meredith, and I didn't know which templar had performed the rite on Karl – yet – but I knew this piece of dung here was having great fun bullying those who he thought were defenceless. Maybe he was even the one who had stabbed Pod, and if not, even so he surely had a long tally of names to answer for.

I watched, detatched from my own actions, as I approached the surprised man, and then as my hand descended - white knuckles and cold fingers clenched around the hilt of the scalpel that I always carried with me. The force of the blow put it cleanly through his hand, and I let go, grabbing the Coterie enforcer's hair to smash his face against the wooden surface of my table. He left behind a half-ring of broken teeth and when I pulled him up again it was to see that his nose was gone and jaw shattered in more places than one judging by how it hung askew, a gobble of bloody saliva running from the brute's split lip.

The man's friends did not idly stand by, but pulled knifes out of their various sheaths. Thankfully, I still had my staff, the one I had insisted on entering the gallows with. It was little more than a wooden stick, but good enough for the purpose of beating some sense into mindless idiots. I smashed it into the groin of the man behind me before he could flank me and whirled to face the other ones. Step, spin, and thrust, a basic form of fighting with the spear that the Wardens had taught me. My staff connected with flesh with a satisfying smack, my mind keeping count out of the force of habit.

Judging by the looks on the Coterie members' faces, those despots had not counted on any form of resistance. They had probably expected to find one more terrified, half-starved refugee who would grovel before them and go down without a fight. I might be a refugee, and very hungry indeed, and under pressure I might even admit to being all three of the above, but being a Warden had taught me the invaluable lesson of standing up for myself. I might not be a warrior, but the job of a physician was hard physical work, and most likely the only thing that kept me in shape now that I didn't spend my days actively running away from templars of slaying darkspawn.

Before my adversaries could as much as organize themselves in any way, three of them were out, and I still had my magic to fall back on. But the fight had gone out of their eyes, to be replaced by trepidation, easy to see in how they backed away instead of advancing despite having the advantage of numbers.

"Get out," I forced out between my clenched teeth and wrenched the knife out of the leader's hand, ignoring the cry of pain. "Or I will fix you up, alright."

The two remaining thugs picked up their fallen friends and all but ran out of my clinic, the fifth one limping after them, his hands cupped around his jewels. I hoped the damage was permanent; his ilk shouldn't breed.

Cousland had encouraged for me to try and practuce martial arts in addition to roasting any fools who got in our way. Thank you, Raynard, for broadening my horizon on the various kinds of violence people liked to inflict on others. If nothing else, hitting somebody over the head with a heavy object felt wonderfully cathartic. But as satisfactory as it had been to marginally improve Darktown by teaching its most infamous denizens a lesson, the high from the fight was already almost gone, leaving me feeling worn out and tense. The Coterie wouldn't stand for such an affront to their organization.

They would only send more thugs after me.

I turned to make sure Brekker's cronies were gone for good and saw _him_ standing rooted to the door and staring at me, wide-eyed. Of all the people of Thedas he had to have the worst timing. My heart jumped in my chest and I dropped the bloody knife as if I could still deny that it had been me using it to wound, to inflict pain; the deed anathema to any healer.

"Hawke!"

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**AN**: I'm sorry for how long it took me to update. I haven't given up on the story, it's just in VERY slow progress.


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